


Some of Us Have Sharper Teeth

by tiger_moran



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, Explicit Consent, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, Post-Coital Cuddling, Vampire Bites, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-11-05 06:08:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17913263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: Moran is a vampire. Moriarty is not. They have found a way to sate Moran's appetite for blood that satisfies them both.





	Some of Us Have Sharper Teeth

**Author's Note:**

> This is mad love, Oh  
> This is mad love  
> In love's secret domain  
> Give sanity a longer leash  
> Some of us have sharper teeth  
> In love's secret domain
> 
> Coil - Love's Secret Domain

They sit in the restaurant with its gilt and its plush upholstery, its snow-white table linen and waiters crisply attired in monochrome. Its lighting is artfully done so as to make the wine glow like rubies and the crystal glasses shine like diamonds without appearing overdone and therefore vulgar. There is a buzz of conversation around them, the murmur of dozens of other patrons engaging in discussion around their own tables, and yet it seems oddly subdued. There is a sense of reticence in the air tonight, the talk around them sometimes punctuated by a sharp burst of laughter that is that bit too loud, likely fuelled by the overconsumption of the wine that gleams like the jewels around the necks of some of the women. Like blood.

Several other people keep surreptitiously glancing towards them, at these two gentlemen who are respectfully attired, who behave with impeccable control and courtesy, unsure perhaps why their gaze is drawn towards the younger, slightly smaller looking figure of the two most often. Is it perhaps because of his accent, which, on the rare occasion when he talks, is revealed to be that bit too common for a sumptuous location such as this? Perhaps not, for even before anyone heard him utter a word they had found him inexplicably drawing their gaze. It is probably not the fact that he firmly requested, upon ordering his beef, for the meat to be served “Extremely rare.” Again this occurred long after he had first begun to draw their attention towards him. It is more as if he exudes some manner of animal magnetism, some understated but undeniably powerful unconscious allure that catches at some dim, distant part of their mind, tugging their focus towards him, then leaving them wondering why precisely they inexplicably thought of... _tigers_?

Moriarty glances down at his plate at the remains of his own far-more-well-done meat. He dabs his lips with napkin, using the square of linen to conceal his wry smile. He too thinks of tigers, of the notion that is so difficult to shake that he has brought a wild tiger into this restaurant – a tiger dressed up in a fine suit. Of all the people here tonight though who think this, likely he is the only one who understands the cause of it.

Opposite him Moran looks up from his almost-raw meat, a watchful gaze, intently focused upon the Professor's face. When the lighting catches his eyes there is a flicker within them, an almost opalescent, oddly unearthly silver shimmer in the backs of them, like the eyes of some animals will seem to glow when caught in the lamplight. Moriarty has long since ceased to be startled by this, nor does he any longer find that the intensity of the Colonel's expression sometimes unnerves him.

Moran regards him for a moment, then blinks and turns his head slightly, causing the silver shine of the backs of his eyes to vanish. He remains keenly aware of the Professor's gaze resting upon him, and on the periphery of his senses he knows that others still glance at him from time to time. He sweeps his tongue across his lower lip, licking away a trace of juice that dribbles from his meat as he eats. He chews slowly, but in truth he barely tastes or notices what he is consuming. It is fine meat but even though it has barely been exposed to the heat, it is not this food he truly needs, or craves. All around him he can hear the people – their inane chatter, their chewing, their breathing. If he allows his focus to slip he is sure he can even hear the beat of their hearts, the throbbing of their pulses, the pumping of the blood through their veins.

Looking down at the piece of meat on his plate, he wonders again what truly separates men from cattle. His hand clenches around the handle of his knife.

Under the table, Moriarty shifts his foot to discreetly press it against Moran's leg, a slight touch only, the merest pressure being sufficient to bring Moran back, to ground him again.

When the Colonel glances towards him again, Moriarty arches an eyebrow at him. “Later,” he says, the word a promise, and Moran grins.

~

Moran sheds jacket and tie as soon as they get into the bedroom, dropping them over the back of a chair.

“People were starin' at me,” he says as he sits to unlace and remove his shoes.

“Because you are really quite captivating, my dove,” Moriarty tells him as he sits on the bed to remove his own shoes.

“They suspect what I am.” Moran kicks off the second of his shoes.

“On some dim level of their narrow little minds, perhaps so.”

“They're _afraid_ of me.”

“Afraid, a little, but I think also on some distant level too, they desire you.” The Professor looks up from removing his own shoes. “Deep inside their unconscious minds is a longing to submit to you; the death drive within them; the prey's longing to bare its throat for the predator.”

Moran laughs, a low rumbling sound that seems to come from deep in his throat. “For one or two of 'em I wouldn't have minded obligin' 'em.” He adds his waistcoat to the pile on the chair and begins to unbutton his shirt.

“I commend your circumspection in resisting that desire,” Moriarty says, hanging up his jacket. “There are only so many untimely deaths one can reasonably cover up.”

“And what about you, Professor?” Moran enquires, watching him steadily. “What about your 'unconscious drives'?” He parts his legs slightly as he sits there.

“You think I wish to bare my throat for you, hmm?” Moriarty queries as he unties his cravat, his gaze fixed upon Moran's.

“Not your throat, maybe.”

“Something else then.” Moriarty drops his cravat aside almost carelessly, then reaches up to unfasten his shirt collar. He continues to regard Moran, who sits there bared to the waist, with his hands with those long strong fingers resting upon his knees and that intense look in his eyes, practically trembling with suppressed need, with _hunger_. His manner is almost flirtatious, but this goes deeper than just sex, however much his wants may often be inextricably linked with it. This is a hunger that cannot be sated by fine dinners, even by meat served almost raw. But his control remains perfect, letting the Professor lead still.

Moriarty slips off his waistcoat and discards his shirt collar alongside this. “Come here,” he says with a smile playing over his lips.

Moran tilts his head slightly and again there is that strange smoky shimmer in the back of his eyes as the lamplight catches them. “Sir, do you...?” He asks no more as he stands up. He does not need to finish the question aloud.

“Yes,” Moriarty answers.

Moran approaches the bed barefoot with slow, languid strides, yet the power contained in his body, the wiry strength in his muscles is obvious, even beneath his remaining clothing. It is a wild animal's power, kept in check for now but capable of exploding with violent and deadly force during the moment of the hunt. Moriarty watches the movements of Moran's muscles and tendons as he walks, sees the slightly lopsided grin that shows teeth that bit too sharp to appear entirely human and how Moran runs the tip of his tongue over his lip again as he grins.

“You know how this goes,” Moran says. A statement, not a threat, not even a question, not really. His voice sounds oddly husky.

“Yes.” Moriarty smiles as he unbuttons his shirt. He meets Moran's gaze with confidence, his light tone of voice suggesting indifference to Moran's increasingly predatory manner.

“You're sure?” Moran questions, and his voice is barely more than a whisper now. When he presses against Moriarty, pushing him back against the pillows, his body is tense as a spring in the instant before it snaps.

“Yes.” Moriarty runs his hands down Moran's back and that tension practically thrums through him. He can smells Moran's hair oil, the substance that helps give him a greater semblance of being a normal, perfectly ordinary human being. But that illusion is falling away rapidly, piece by piece, the closer Moran's sharp teeth come to his skin.

Moran kisses him for a moment, rough and deep, possessively and passionately, but without aggression. Straddling the Professor, he cradles Moriarty's face between his hands for a few seconds before dropping his head down. Moriarty's breath hitches as Moran's mouth brushes against his throat, as he trails downwards, teeth just barely scraping the skin over where Moriarty's pulse beats fast in his neck.

“All of it?” Moran asks, his mouth half an inch, even less perhaps, from Moriarty's bare flesh.

“All of it,” Moriarty confirms, and there is a fraction of a second, no more, when the Colonel meets his gaze again, one last attempt to seek confirmation before it becomes far, far too late for any of that. When Moriarty nods, almost imperceptibly, Moran drops his head again close to the Professor's shoulder, and he bites. Moriarty gasps again, unable to keep back the sharp exhalation as his lover's teeth pierce his skin. He clutches onto Moran's back, his fingers digging in tightly as Moran's lips fasten around the small puncture he has made; as Moran sucks from him.

The intensity of the sensation courses through the Professor, through his veins, through his nerves, running down his spinal column, seeming to run through his bones, his organs, coalescing in his groin. The pain spiked with pleasure, or vice-versa (Moriarty is never quite sure which it is) is undeniably, achingly erotic. His prick hardens inside his clothing, pressed up against Moran's body as the Colonel feeds from his shoulder, and the feel of his arousal constrained by his trousers adds a further layer of exquisite torment to the proceedings.

“Sebastian,” he says, but it is an utterance of Moran's name, no more, almost meaningless. Certainly not a request for Moran to cease, even if Moran was capable of stopping at this time. As Moran sucks, his throat working almost obscenely as he swallows, Moriarty cannot keep from bucking up against him, seeking greater friction against his arousal. “Sebastian, I...”

Moran drops a hand to Moriarty's trousers, unbuttons the fly without looking and slips his hand inside. His palm is cool and dry and slightly calloused against Moriarty's length as he draws it free of the clothing. “James,” he says, pulling back slightly, smiling with blood on his lips, on his teeth.

Moriarty looks back at him, not quite focused now, smiling an almost delirious smile at him. Not blood loss though, that has this affect on him – Moran is always careful about the amount that he takes from the Professor. Something else then, something more chaotic, less logical, that sense of animal magnetism emanating from Moran catching even the rational Professor in thrall.

Still grinning that bloodied grin, Moran slides down and closes his lips around the Professor's erect shaft. Moriarty practically whines and bucks up to meet him again. Moran does not protest though even as the Professor's cock hits the back of his throat. Moran's sharp teeth are so precariously close to this precious organ, but he sheaths them with his lips, being so, so careful not to pierce the skin now. Having just gulped down a quantity of the Professor's blood, it is another liquid Moran now has in mind to swallow.

“Sebastian!” Moriarty hisses through his teeth as Moran takes him in his mouth to the root of his prick. The Professor's head is thrown back, his hair falling all over the place, his face and chest flushed despite his loss of blood. He feels light-headed, but pleasantly so, nearly overwhelmed by sensation and yet not in terror of his increasing loss of control, only embracing it. His whole body seems to ache and burn with mingled pain and pleasure, his prick and the bite-mark in his shoulder forming the two most brightly burning points in this blaze of sensation. Moran's lips feel strangely cool against his burning skin but if anything the contrast this provides only intensifies the pleasure. He tangles his fingers in Moran's hair, which is too short to get much purchase on, but he ruffles it any which way, carelessly. “Sebastian, I need to... I need...” But he cannot voice what he needs, the act of coherently stringing words together now eludes him, lost amongst the feel of Moran's cool, dry lips against his shaft; amidst the sharp scent of fresh perspiration shot through with an undercurrent of blood.

But it doesn't matter that Moriarty cannot put it into words any longer. Moran knows. He puts a hand to Moriarty's hip, steadying him as he eases back momentarily, before moving to engulf Moriarty's whole length once more. Moriarty whimpers, almost completely lost now, his eyes screwing tightly closed. He throws his head back against the pillows, arching up against Moran.

“Sebastian,” he says again. “I...” But he comes with a choked cry, throwing his arm across his already-closed eyes as his release pulses from him. Moran guides him through it, gulping the warm salty fluid down just as he gulped the blood from Moriarty's veins, his nose pressed into the curls of auburn hair between Moriarty's legs, his hand resting against Moriarty's hip still but with far gentler pressure now. “'s'all right,” he says at last, drawing back when Moriarty has ceased to spend any more. “It's all right, James.”

Moriarty lies there looking at him, his arm across his forehead now but his eyes open, and he laughs. “Come here.” He drops his arm to stroke Moran's side, to slip a hand around Moran's back and draw him closer. He glances downwards towards the rather obvious bulge in Moran's trousers. How patient the Colonel is, he muses. Of course Moran enjoys pleasuring the Professor or else he would not do so time and time again, but he has yet to climax tonight. Moriarty brushes his hand over the front of his lover's trousers, teasing him with the caress.

Moran gasps a little at the touch. His eyes look very dark now, his pupils wide, but still when the light catches them there is that strange pale iridescent shimmer within their depths. He shifts over to straddle the Professor. So predacious, Moriarty thinks, watching Moran steadily whilst he undoes Moran's trousers and slips his hand inside. It might seem like sheer folly to lie like this with him, even more so to touch Moran like _this_ , to add the inevitable loss of control of Moran's own orgasm into the mix. But still he touches Moran anyway, drawing his erect prick out of his clothing and stroking him. He should be afraid perhaps, but he is not, not even when the bite on his shoulder still throbs dully, reminding him of what Moran is capable of, as if he could ever forget it. He has  _seen_ the Colonel tear out a man's throat in front of him; he has felt the spatter of blood over his face even as Moran buried his teeth in the man's neck. That is the price one must pay however for trying to double-cross Professor Moriarty. With Moriarty himself it is different. Moran may hurt him, just a little, but he does not harm him.

“ _God_ ,” Moran breathes as Moriarty strokes him, but Moran does not believe in God; he has no idol but the Professor. When Moran comes in the Professor's hand the greatest loss of control he experiences is any semblance of an ability to hide his feelings from Moriarty. “James!” he cries, and the look in this predator's eyes is not murderous, only one of absolute love and devotion.

“All right, my dove.” Moriarty brushes Moran's cheek with his clean hand. Moran will not kiss him on the mouth right now, but he does turn his head and press a kiss to Moriarty's palm. His eyes are closed as he does so, the better to savour the sensation of it perhaps. He only opens them again as he draws back to grab a handkerchief from the bedside table.

He wipes the worst of the mess off Moriarty's hand before he sprawls beside the Professor, turning his face towards Moriarty's, nuzzling against his cheek. “I wish...” He clears his throat. “I wish you'd let me change you.”

“Not yet,” Moriarty says.

“One day?”

“One day.”

“But what if...” Moran screws his eyes closed momentarily. “What if something happens to you before that?”

“Do you think I am weak because I am merely human, hmm?”

“Course not.” Moran smiles as he opens his eyes to look at the Professor again. Again there is that ethereal shimmer in the backs of his eyes. “But you've made enemies, sir, powerful ones.”

“Yes, but I have you to protect me, don't I?” Moriarty remarks with a grin. “My loyal dove. My fierce tiger.” He turns over to face Moran fully. “One day,” he says, “I will let you take this to its inevitable conclusion.” Were he referring to anyone else likely this would mean only death but speaking of himself, it is not death, not quite. Undeath, some call it. Vampirism, others label it, although it seems to have less to do with the vampires of folklore and mythology and far more to do with some manner of infection, something that taints the blood and makes men either less than human or more than human depending upon one's point of view. Moran is not less than human, certainly not, but Moriarty is still unsure exactly how much this condition might alter him were he to agree to allow Moran to change him. Until he has a better understanding of that, better to keep things as they are. It is not as if the differences between them at present make things unpleasant. On the contrary, he thinks, lying curled up with Moran in the blissful afterglow of orgasm, they make things extremely pleasant at times.

“Promise?” Moran asks.

Moriarty smiles, not one of his faux-cordial smiles of the kind he makes use of when dealing with irritating fellow academics or certain criminal rivals, but a warm and genuine one as he looks into Moran's eyes. “I promise,” he says.

 

**Author's Note:**

> For the anon who said "I think you once said about writing part of a vampire!Moran story. I'd love to see something about Moriarty/Moran with vampire!Moran"


End file.
